


Jolly On My Own Time

by thecarlysutra



Category: The Closer
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Episode: s03e14 Next of Kin, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-16
Updated: 2007-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brenda may not have the holiday spirit, but she's got Fritz to keep her from forgetting the little things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jolly On My Own Time

  
Christmas decorations rain down, a shining shimmering hail. Tinsel and very breakable ornaments, candy canes and angels.

Brenda is not at all discriminating in her quest to rid Christmas from what will very soon not be her house.

Fritz began the afternoon running around behind her: catching fragile things before they crashed to the floor; rolling tinsel into sensible, tangle-free balls; but he has since given up, and sits nearby, stuffing Christmas into large, black garbage bags.

"You can't tell me," he says, even though he should know better than to say anything, "that the place didn't look nice – homey, even – with this stuff up."

"I can tell you that," Brenda replies, whip quick. "But that'd hurt your feelings, and I wouldn't want to do that. After you made it look so nice."

Fritz doesn't say anything. He stuffs a tiny, ceramic Santa with a caved-in porcelain face into the garbage bag.

"Are there any holidays you do like?"

Brenda spins around from stripping the tree, offense written all over her face. "I like Christmas! I do!" Fritz starts to reply, but Brenda steamrolls right over his words. "It's just that I don't like it when people force me to be jolly. I will be jolly in my own time—if time allows, which it often doesn't."

"Christmas with your parents was . . . nice." Fritz changes the subject, knowing there's no acceptable way to inform Brenda that everyone is meant to be jolly at Christmas; it's just the ways things are. (Not that the way things are has ever mattered terribly much to her . . .)

"It was. And I was jolly then. See?"

"Yeah. I see. Jolly while driving across the country with a murderer, your parents, and Provenza and Flynn. Yeah, that made me jolly, too."

Brenda's mouth twists into a polite Southern frown, which happily prevents her from saying the impolite things she would very much like to say, had she been raised differently.

More ornaments are flung carelessly to the floor. Candy canes crack to peppermint dust; multicolored, shining glass balls shatter to sparkling dust. Fritz gets the dustpan.

And then, suddenly and without warning, just as Fritz is cramming the fat-cheeked angel into his bag: "Oh, shoot!"

Fritz looks up. Brenda is hopping up and down like a small child who needs to use the little girl's room. Her right index finger is pressed to her mouth, and her brow is furrowed.

Fritz stands, comes over to her. "Are you all right?"

Brenda stamps a foot. "Darn—darn tricky Christmas ornaments, with their . . . their hooks that can just sink into your finger without any warning—darn it . . . !"

Fritz takes her wrist, draws her hand and the maimed finger toward him. He inspects the injured digit, which has already stopped bleeding and is marred only by a bright pinprick of blood.

"Would you like me to investigate the ornament factory? I'm sure this isn't an isolated case—"

Brenda frowns and tries to yank her hand back. Instead, she reels Fritz in: he still has her hand, and he's now only inches from her.

He studies her terrible injury another few moments, and then, gently, presses his lips to the prick.

He looks up to her softening face. "Better?"

"Well . . . you know . . ."

It's nice to have her speechless. He kisses her again, her lips, long and sweet, and she never once interrupts.  



End file.
